Moria lay in the dark for at least half a day. Or half a night. She had no idea which it was, no way to tell. Darkness. Silence. Cold. That’s all she had.
A few times, she rose and tried to pace, but she couldn’t see the leg iron and kept tripping against it, and with each stumble, the metal bit into her leg, which was already tender from rubbing against the iron. When she felt blood dripping down her ankle, she stopped and curled into a ball on the floor.
Daigo. Tyrus.
Was Daigo alive? If not, she should feel it. Same with Ashyn.
But Tyrus . . . ?
They’d parted in anger. When he hadn’t heard her, she should have gone after him, but at the time, she’d only thought, I’ll do that later. What if there was no later?
And Gavril . . .
Given what may have befallen Tyrus, she ought not to spend a moment thinking of Gavril. He had betrayed her nearly a fortnight ago.
So why did it still hurt so much?
And what of Edgewood’s and Fairview’s children? Did they still live? Had Ronan and Ashyn found them? Or could they be here, wherever here was?
When the door clanged open, she scrambled up. In walked an elderly woman, her face so lined it seemed lost in its nut-brown folds. A guard followed at her heels. From his bearing she could tell he was not a mercenary, but a warrior of the empire. Sworn to protect the emperor. Now he’d sworn loyalty to a traitor who murdered innocents.
Rage filled Moria, like a flash fire that ignited all her tamped-down anger. She dug her fingers into the dirt floor to keep from launching herself at the traitor.
“This is the healer,” the guard said. “She does not speak the common language, so there is no sense attempting to converse with her. She has been sent by Lord Gavril to tend to your wounds. If you raise a hand against her, she will be taken away and will not return, and your injuries will be left to fester.”
“I’d not raise a hand against an old woman,” Moria said. “You’ve been too long in the company of the Kitsunes if you expect that.”
“I would suggest, Keeper, that you remember where you are and refrain from insulting your hosts. It will not help your situation.”
“Alvar Kitsune raised shadow stalkers to massacre my village.”
To her surprise, the guard laughed. “Is that what the emperor would have you believe?”
“No, it’s what I saw.”
“Is it?” All humor left his eyes as they hardened. “Perhaps then you are not a gullible child, but an instrument of the tyrant on the imperial throne. Is that the tale he told you to spread? Shadow stalkers? It would be funny if it weren’t so heinous an accusation. The marshal warned us that the emperor would resurrect the old accusations of sorcery.”
“Because he is a sorcerer.” Moria got to her feet. “As is his son. I saw Gavril—”
His hand hit her across the mouth and she fell back, tasting blood. The old woman tensed but did nothing.
“I would beg the ancestors’ forgiveness for striking a Keeper, if I did not believe you have already lost their favor. What has that imperial snake promised for your lies?” The guard stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps the rumor is true. They say his young Seeker and Keeper have not been sleeping in their own quarters. Twin girls sharing his sleeping pallet? The old lecher may be guilty of every possible perversion, but that would not be one he’s sampled before.”
Moria laughed. She couldn’t help it.
“You find that amusing, girl?”
“No, I find it ridiculous. First, I can hardly imagine the emperor ignoring a declaration of war to amuse himself with young women. Second, if I’m supposedly his new plaything, why was I captured several days walk from the imperial city, fighting alongside his son? I would hope if he did bed me, he’d not tire of me quite so quickly.”
Did she imagine it or did the old woman’s lips quirk?
“You think highly of yourself, don’t you, girl?” the guard said. “And you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”
“I won’t sit by and listen to lies in silence. I should not be surprised, though. How could the Kitsunes expect to woo honorable men to their side if they admitted to sorcery? To raising the dead? To unleashing monsters and massacring—”
“Enough!” He sprang at her, hand raised, but she knocked it aside and glowered at him.
He headed for the door and waved for the old woman to leave with him. She shook her head and teetered over to Moria as she said something in a language Moria didn’t recognize. From the guard’s expression, he didn’t know it either. But he caught the tone and the name Gavril and her meaning was clear enough. Gavril had ordered her to tend to Moria’s wounds, and she was doing as she was told.
“You want to stay?” the guard said. “Stay alone, then, and hope she does not snap your old neck.”
The guard stormed out. The old healer motioned again for Moria to sit and examined her head to toe with crow-sharp black eyes. She muttered under her breath and toddled off.
“No!” Moria called after her as she scrambled up. “My leg is hurt. The skin’s broken, and I fear infection. If you have something clean, I’ll wrap it myself—”
The woman walked out and shut the door behind her.
Moria struggled against panic.
I must warn the emperor about Alvar’s lies. I must get back . . .
She shifted and heard the chain scrape over the rock-strewn floor. How was she going to escape? Gavril seemed prepared to let her rot in here.
I would not kill you, Keeper. Not kill you. Not harm you. Not ever.
That’s what he’d said. But there were so many ways to hurt. Not all of them required fists and blades.
Yes, I have done whatever you believe. I have deceived you. I have betrayed you. Remember that. Whatever happens, remember that.
When the door clanked, she sat up quickly. The old woman had returned, this time with a maidservant bearing a basin of steaming water and a torch. The girl set down the basin and lit the torch, then went, leaving the door open. Moria tried to peer out, to get some sense of where she was, but she saw only a hall with more thick doors.
The old woman said something in her own language. When Moria looked over, the healer motioned for her to undress, waving toward the door as if to assure her no one would come and see her naked. Moria could have laughed. That was truly the last thing she was worried about.
She stripped out of her filthy clothes and began to bathe as the old woman tended to her injuries.
When Moria was done bathing and her ankle had been cleaned and bound, the old woman gave her fresh clothing. As Moria pulled on a shift, the woman passed the bundled tunic and trousers. Moria motioned that she was still getting herself into the shift—the silk stuck on her damp skin—but the woman took Moria’s hand and pressed it against the fabric. There was something hidden in the folds. Something small and hard.
Moria reached in and felt a knobby thing small enough to close her fist around. She pulled out her hand, then carefully opened it.
In her palm lay a black figurine. Obsidian carved in the form of a wildcat. Moria raised her gaze to the old woman.
“Does this mean . . . ?” she whispered, unable to finish.
The healer’s words came thickly accented and awkward, like a magpie repeating a phrase it had heard.
“He lives.”
Moria squeezed the stone figure tightly as tears filled her eyes. The old woman laid a hand on her arm and said something, again in her own language, the words incomprehensible, but the intent clear. Words of comfort and reassurance.
Then, the old woman said, “Keeper.”
Moria looked into the woman’s black-bead eyes and understood. She was showing her this kindness—the wildcat and the comfort—because Moria was a Keeper. Did the old woman follow their ways? Or perhaps someone else here did, some pious warrior, who’d given her the figurine and the message.
“Tyrus,” Moria said. “Prince Tyrus. Does he . . . live?”
Moria could see a glimmer of comprehension in the old woman’s eyes.
“I was with Prince Tyrus when I was captured,” Moria said, speaking slowly. “He is a friend. A very good friend. He was in danger, and I fear . . . Is Prince Tyrus all right?”
The old woman seemed to search her face then. Searching for what?
After a moment, the healer shook her head.
“No? You mean . . .” Moria could barely force the words out. “He’s dead? Tyrus is dead?”
The woman shook her head more vehemently this time. Then she shrugged and shook it again before patting Moria’s arm. She didn’t know if Tyrus lived or not. That was all she’d been saying.
“What about the children?” Moria asked.
The old woman’s face wrinkled in confusion.
“Children?” Moria said. “The little ones? From my village and from Fairview?”
The healer continued to look confused. It did not seem a problem of language comprehension but of context. She knew nothing of captive children. Like the guard, she’d been fed lies. That meant the little ones were not being held here.
Moria finished dressing while the healer brought stew. It was hardly palace-worthy cuisine, but it was hot.
The old woman departed as Moria ate. When the door opened again moments later, it was the guard from earlier, bearing a bucket and a thick wool blanket.
“You’ll need this to piss in,” he said, throwing the bucket across the cell. “Mind that you do. As for this—” He threw the blanket on the floor beside the bucket. “The old witch thought you might be cold.”
He started to leave, then stopped and turned. “I know you Northerners aren’t too bright, so let me show you how to use that bucket.”
He walked over to it and reached into his trousers. Moria looked away and waited for the sound of him relieving himself in the bucket. When she heard nothing, she glanced over to see him urinating on her blanket. She lunged to grab it, but it was too late.
“Huh,” he said. “It seems I missed. It’s so dark in here. An easy mistake.”
He hitched his trousers up, grinned at her, and sauntered out the door. Moria lifted the blanket, in hopes that perhaps he’d only soiled a corner. Of course he hadn’t. The middle was soaked through, rendering the blanket unusable. Worse, the smell . . .
She threw the wet blanket into the corner, curled up on the floor, clutched her wildcat figurine, and shivered against the cold.